Jackal's Dance

by Beverley Harper

  Josie had gone into the relationship with her eyes wide open and nothing more than a desperate desire to discover the truth about her own sexuality. She did not expect to fall in love. Once she realised she had, that question had at least been answered. The relationship didn’t last but, by the time it ended, Josie was fairly comfortable with the knowledge that she was gay. Just to be sure, she went back to her brother’s friend. Despite his confusion over her hot, cold, and then hot again behaviour, he put it down to the unpredictability of women and enthusiastically obliged. It was a disaster.

  ‘So,’ she told herself. ‘You’re gay. Get used to it.’ It had not been difficult but, so far, the only other people who knew were those she’d been to bed with. Lately, Josie had started to think that if her hormones were all mixed up and she was meant to be a man, then why the hell did her body have to endure these monthly visitations?

  Jewishness was more of a burden to Josie than her sexual preferences. Both set her apart, but she couldn’t hide her background. Unlike a lot of people who belonged to the Jewish faith, Josie found no comfort from the company of others who shared her religion. In any case, although she supposed there were plenty of gay Jewish women out there, looking for them in South Africa struck her as being a futile and restrictive pursuit. So she cast her net wider and, in the doing of that, discovered that with few exceptions, gay gentiles – who really should have understood how hard it was to be different – found her faith a stumbling block. It wasn’t Josie so much as her stereotyped parents, Ozzie and Yonina, with their accents, expressions and preoccupation with money, which made others look at Josie as though she were a different species altogether.

  One day she might meet someone, Jewish or otherwise, with whom she could connect and share her life. In the meantime, Josie was a loner, uncomfortable in the presence of straight women, wary around men and having a period she didn’t believe appropriate.

  Dressed in khaki shorts and black T-shirt, Josie solved the problem of used tampons by stuffing a wad of tissues in her pocket to wrap them in. They could be disposed of back at camp. Running fingers through her short black hair, she stuck an oversized Australian Akubra on her head and left her tent to join the others.

  Angela Gibbs was in no rush, doing her usual early morning exercise slowly and with great concentration. Perfectly proportioned to fit a frame all of one hundred and seventy centimetres high, her body had the well-toned entitlement of youth, although Angela firmly believed it was only because she worked at it. Likewise with skin and hair. Angela had tried every skin care product going. Strangely, her dedication to outward appearances had nothing to do with vanity. She simply had a deep-seated need to look as good as possible for as long as she could. With beauty and body routines in place, Angela was content to leave her ample attributes strictly as nature intended. Long blonde hair was never tinted or curled, but brushed vigorously, conditioned regularly and cut well. Moisturising creams, skin repair oils, toners, anti-wrinkle formulae and face masks were lavished on her face and neck, which were then left to fend for themselves without any further enhancement. Bodywise, Angela would look good in a hessian sack.

  No-one could have guessed that she had a very low opinion of herself. Which on the surface was odd, since despite her presentation she was not even close to the clichéd image of a blonde bimbo. Angela was far from stupid yet seemed not to realise just how much she had to offer.

  Inwardly, she was directionless, insecure and confused – not a happy combination for a twenty-one-year-old girl. Her looks came from a mother who had been a famed model of her day. Unfortunately, the older woman was incapable of discussing anything other than appearance, deportment and finding a suitably rich husband. Angela got her brains from a father who worshipped beauty and success in that order. He was a stunningly successful stockbroker, had a beautiful wife and daughter and considered his husband and fatherly role fulfilled by providing luxuries. While this was enough for his wife it had not been for Angela, who never really knew him. For her he was more like a distant relative than her own father.

  When Angela said she wanted to go to university and study resource management, her mother thought it a good idea. As she put it, ‘You’ll meet tomorrow’s leaders there, darling. But why a science degree? You should be looking at politics or business management.’ Her father had grunted indulgently, written the cheque, bought her a car and paid a generous allowance every month.

  Now in her second year, Angela was no closer to knowing what to do with her life. The courses were interesting enough, although she was not particularly committed to any of them. She studied and achieved results because it was expected of her. Signing up for the field trip was a case of might as well get it over with. She had to do one, if not this year then next. Angela had the vague notion of becoming a game ranger, not because of any particular love for the African bush and its wildlife, or through any desire to protect the flora and fauna of her country, but because it seemed like a different, fun and perhaps glamorous thing to do. She acknowledged, however, that once her degree was obtained, who knew what might happen? Life might well take off in another direction altogether. Modelling, for example.

  Her mother went on and on about marriage. Angela always shied off the subject. She’d probably want children one day, but it was the getting pregnant bit she didn’t want. It seemed to her that, regardless of age, the male of the human species had but one objective in life. If only it could stop at friendship. But no. They always wanted to go further. And Angela knew where that led – to pain and fear while that horrible thing was happening to her. So much pain and fear. So much that it invaded dreams, leaving her shaking, sweating, crying out, as she forced herself awake, away from vivid recollections. Bad memories were supposed to fade. Angela’s didn’t. They grew inside her head like some monstrous worm feeding on her brain. The terrible rough thrusting and animal grunting. That rock-hard thing pounding into her body, tearing at soft flesh. Fetid breath, hot hands pawing, slack lips kissing, and all the while she was pleading, ‘No, please no.’ Then, after what seemed an eternity, the disgusting finale of shuddering hot lust, withdrawal of the thing now soft, sticky and covered with her blood. The odour of something alien. The final insult. ‘Did you like it?’ That horrible, despicable smile of satisfaction, as if he’d bestowed a precious gift. Days and days throwing up with fear and disgust. Months and years of soul-searching that, somehow, it had been her fault, that she’d encouraged him, that she was nothing more than a slut.

  She’d been only fourteen. He’d been a forty-something neighbour. Angela had told no-one about the rape, not even her parents. But the scars left her terrified of men. She could see lust in their eyes whenever they looked at her. All men were the same. Her mother once told her it was normal. Angela couldn’t understand how other women accepted what was, to her, a terrifying invasion of body and soul. She would look at married women and wonder how they could stand it. Did they do it often? Did it hurt them? Did they bleed?

  After the rape, when talk at school turned to sex, Angela always found something else to do. At university, where nocturnal activities were more openly discussed, she pretended to participate. But after that one soul-destroying experience, Angela had not allowed a man anywhere near her. The rape had left scars so deep that, emotionally, Angela never progressed beyond the age of fourteen. She was in a kind of time warp, though in all other aspects her body and mind developed normally.

  To hide her phobia, Angela went out of her way to be friendly, believing if men liked her they wouldn’t dream of sullying her with their filthy lust. Unfortunately, in her nervousness and innocence, males thought she was flirting. She was in a catch-22 situation, but completely unaware of it. Sending out the wrong signals for the wrong reasons, Angela, now firmly convinced that all men were driven by the same thing, knew with certainty it was exactly that which she could never give.

  Troy was a perfect example. She’d been nice to him because he seemed to fancy her. Fancying her would lead
to . . . So she was especially friendly, sitting with him on the bus, giggling at his jokes. She had to make him like her. If he did, then maybe he wouldn’t want to . . . Being friendly hadn’t worked. He’d sensed she was a slut – somehow men always knew – and made that disgusting comment, ‘I want to kiss you all over.’ He had that look in his eyes, the one Angela knew meant his thing was stiff and ready to hurt.

  Angela stared at her reflection in a small mirror, trying to see what it was that made men think she would want them to hurt her. As usual, she saw nothing. Putting the mirror back in her toilet bag, Angela collected up what she would need for the morning. Ready at last, she crawled from the tent, reluctant to face yet another uncomfortable day in the bush.

  Kalila Mabuka took great pains with her attire. Let no-one say that, as the token African of the group as she firmly believed she was, there would be any question of letting the side down. Fawn-coloured bush shorts, a crisp white cotton blouse, white ankle socks and lightweight walking shoes. She was tall for a Zulu, her skin the colour of polished ebony, and finely featured. By anyone’s standards Kalila was beautiful, and she knew it. It was a fact accepted as her due. If she found fault in herself at all, it was the size of her bottom. Kalila had an African’s posterior, which men of her own race found highly attractive. However, she was well aware that white men preferred the tight little backsides of European women and, proud as she was of the generous proportions of her own rear end, which rolled invitingly when she walked, there lurked within Kalila a vague disquiet that because of it, she would never be accepted as an equal.

  One part of her wanted that acceptance. The other, as proud daughter of a Zulu chief, considered herself a cut above most. And that included English- or Afrikaans-speaking Europeans.

  At twenty-six, Kalila was considerably older than just about all the other students in her year. The reason for that was simple enough. Her father had entered politics just as soon as South Africa achieved majority rule. As a member of Inkatha, his political party was in the minority and the family had been moved around a fair bit before he secured his current position in Pretoria with the African National Congress-dominated Ministry for the Interior. Kalila had always dreamed of going to university. She was bright, motivated and interested in biology. Her father, a traditional Zulu, believed it a waste of time. His daughter would marry, raise children and live in the new South Africa as an equal. But ever more preoccupied with his political responsibilities, and since Kalila showed no sign of giving up her ambition, he relented and she was accepted into a Bachelor of Science program at Wits University.

  She had a regular boyfriend who was studying to qualify as a doctor. Also Zulu, and from a prominent family, their parents hoped that the two would marry. Maybe they would, but not yet. Kalila’s boyfriend encouraged her to pursue her studies. At the moment there was no room in either of their lives for a family.

  Kalila had been offered a place, which she refused, at the University of Zululand. She believed it was important to do well in an institution which had, up until fairly recently, been for exclusive use of the country’s ruling minority.

  This field trip was the first time in her life that Kalila had been the only African in the company of whites for any length of time. The experience was eye-opening.

  Professor Kruger was okay. Any criticism he made of her was made in equal amounts of the others. She’d looked carefully for signs that colour singled her out but found none. The team’s leader appeared to notice nothing outside his specialised field of academic interests.

  Fletch, aside from his pathetic excuse about why her tea was always delivered last, treated her as an equal. Well, she wasn’t. Her father was a chief. His grew grapes. They were poles apart. If a Zulu commoner approached his chief, or any of the first family for that matter, with such easy familiarity, he’d quickly be put in his place.

  Megan, too, insulted Kalila by assuming the same status. Okay, her father had been a doctor. That gave him an elevated status in Zulu eyes. But Megan was deformed, therefore inferior. That was the Zulu way. You’d think the girl would know. She was, after all, from Durban, the capital of KwaZulu Natal. Typical white arrogance. Or was it ignorance? It didn’t matter – Megan should have known.

  As for Troy and his stupid comments: ‘Hey, Kalila, is that a food store you’ve got behind you or is it something to hang onto?’ She’d joined in the nervous laughter of those who heard the near racist, definitely sexist remark, but inside, Kalila seethed. She’d been present when Troy made an unfortunate reference to Josie about Kugels but, without doubt, his insult over the size of her bottom was far worse.

  Josie had reacted with anger. Kalila with polite, although false, appreciation. Just one of the confusing differences between black and white. The Jewish girl, because she’d been singled out by Troy for her faith, was one Kalila thought she might befriend. But Josie remained distant. Kalila assumed it was because she didn’t like Africans.

  Angela seemed friendly enough with everyone, except Troy. There was something else though, which Kalila couldn’t quite put a finger on. Playacting perhaps, as though the surface was no reflection of her true self. The Zulu wrote Angela off as two-faced.

  So Kalila kept herself aloof and, as a result, was considered to be unfriendly. The others treated her with wary politeness. They knew her father was a politician and black politicians in the new South Africa were generally mistrusted. She was well aware of this attitude, due possibly to resentment, though the country’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission had proved that the previous powers were no different.

  Leaving her tent, Kalila zipped it shut and walked towards the fire, ready for another day of simmering resentment.

  Fletch stood talking to the professor. The deep red of his thick hair, the translucence of a clear pale skin and startling blue eyes, seemed to take on extra depth as the first rays of sun fell on them. He was, without a doubt, the most interesting-looking of the group, each feature a well-defined, absolute block of colour. His nose sat neat and unobtrusive over well-defined lips. Good-looking, but not flamboyantly so. Fletch had a presence that grew on people, surprising them when they inevitably acknowledged that he was actually quite handsome. The standard red hair and freckles didn’t apply – there was not a freckle to be seen. He did have to watch his skin, though. It burned easily and never seemed to go brown. Reasonably tall at just over one hundred and eighty centimetres, well proportioned and extremely fit, if it hadn’t been for Fletch’s love of the bush he’d probably have turned to professional tennis. He had been good enough and still played a demon game, which kept him the university’s number one player and unbeatable in inter-varsity matches.

  Fletch was the son every mother dreamed of having. Even-tempered, easygoing, popular, good at school, captain of his house, up to the usual pranks when he was younger but nothing heart-stopping, polite, subtle though seriously funny sense of humour, athletic. The boy would, his parents knew, marry an acceptable girl and father two healthy children, one of each sex. He would never divorce, do drugs, become an alcoholic, drive recklessly or break the law in any shape or form.

  Oh the blindness of besotted parents!

  True, Fletch was a nice enough guy. But he certainly wasn’t perfect. There was more to Fletch than met the eye. At school, during his final year, he made smoke bombs courtesy of the science laboratory and set them off after lights out in the boarding house showers. The smoke alarms went bananas, the building was hastily evacuated and the fire brigade called. When the cause was discovered, an irate headmaster addressed one hundred or so pyjama-clad boys. ‘If the culprit is found he will be expelled,’ thundered the furious man. Fletch, as house captain, was instructed to make inquiries. He did so, then solemnly reported back that he’d been unable to discover who was responsible.

  During a formal dinner dance at the neighbouring girls’ school, Fletch was found under a hedge in compromising circumstances with one of the girls. Her headmistress, despite the late hour, telepho
ned his headmaster to report the incident. Luckily the man had a soft spot for Fletch, never believing for one minute that the boy was capable of anything truly dire. In any event, he didn’t particularly like the headmistress. She had not been pleased, therefore, when he sourly replied, ‘Half his luck.’ There had been a pregnancy scare, discreetly taken care of by the girl’s parents, and a warning to Fletch: ‘For God’s sake, boy, wear a condom.’ The head’s attitude was that boys will be boys and the unfortunate girl had obviously led the lad on. He didn’t report the matter to Fletch’s parents.

  Friends called him a lead-foot because, especially when pissed, he drove like the clappers. Only an occasional pot smoker, Fletch drank to excess whenever he could afford to, partied at the drop of a hat and screwed whenever he got the chance. All in all, a typical university student. Butter did melt in his mouth, he said boo to geese whenever he saw them and the halo perceived by his adoring mum and dad was in dire need of replacement.

  For all that, those in authority saw potential and Fletch, despite his best efforts, was regarded as a quiet achiever and a born leader.

  The professor had almost finished his briefing. ‘You, Megan, Troy and Kalila make straight for the den. Josie, Angela and I will come in from the west. With luck, the family will be sleeping off breakfast and we can easily trap and immobilise them. Have you got the tranquilliser and ear tags?’

  ‘Troy has them.’

  Eben looked at Troy for confirmation, who nodded.

  ‘Who has the net?’

  ‘Me.’ Kalila patted her small backpack.

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘I’ve got them,’ Josie said. ‘Five pairs.’

  ‘Sandwiches?’ Eben directed the question to Megan.

  ‘Packed.’

  ‘Who’s got the tape recorder?’